photo by Frank Dixon Graham, Sacramento
—Chrys Mollett, Angels Camp
Sundays waken me to the week's widest door.
Wide with choices, wide with sky, and time.
Some Sundays, the door is bright with a golden silence—
Or heavy oak, carved and hand-smoothed.
Shall I sit with other congregants and sing?
Would I get there in time?
I could listen to the new pastor I actually like
Who holds the door as wide open as he can
To pull me in.
But then I'd be in town.
I need to stay home and listen to everything.
This Sunday opens onto an old barn door
That slides splintery on hay-littered tracks.
The old John Deere needs work.
An empty soup can, stripped of Campbell's colors
Covers the upspout exhaust pipe.
A nest of baby kittens waits for mama,
A barn owl sleeps in the rafters
Above his refuse pellets of clean bones.
The bats hang crowded and faceless;
Later they'll be waiting for mosquito dusk
With beautiful blind eyes. Dark parchment wings
And with sonic-sensitive ears like huge whiskers,
They'll vacuum the air for a rich spring meal.